MemoRandom: A Thriller (49 page)

“Man down,” someone yelled in his earpiece. “Man down!”

He felt for the microphone. This whole operation was rapidly going completely to . . .

•  •  •

Hell! Detective Inspector Josef Almlund was crawling through the snow, pressing his hand to his gut and feeling the blood running between his fingers. The bullet had hit him just below his bulletproof vest and must have caused a fuck-load of damage to his intestines before exiting through his back. He slumped back against the wall of the house, fumbling in the snow for his gun, but couldn’t find anything. A few moments later he realized that he must have pissed himself as well. Fuckfuckfuck . . .

Five men came charging out of the forest in front of him, rushing across the snow. They were all wearing green and beige camouflage outfits that made them stand out clearly against the white background. In their hands they were clutching heavy assault rifles, all pointing at him.

One of the men went up to Josef, kicked some snow at him, and said something to the others in a language that Josef thought was probably Serbian. Then he put his assault rifle to Josef’s head.

Josef shut his eyes, thinking that this was one hell of a shitty way to die. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t listened to Peter Molnar. Hadn’t let his greed get the better of him.

When he opened his eyes the men had gone around the house toward the turning circle. He felt his chest for his radio but discovered that the pocket on his shoulder was empty. The ear-shattering clatter of assault rifles made him cover his head with his arms.

•  •  •

Hunter looked out from beneath the 4x4. He could see the men’s backs as they rushed around the van. Blue bulletproof vests, tracksuits, a long plait of hair. He could hear the sound of their shotguns firing, followed by a pistol as someone up on the porch returned fire.

The clatter of assault rifles came out of nowhere. The sound was deafening, bringing down snow from several of the nearest trees. One of the men from the van crumpled as the others threw themselves down and sought shelter.

Hunter twisted to his right and could see heavy boots and camouflaged legs between him and the house. He fired almost without aiming, emptying his entire cartridge. He heard a cry as one of the men in camouflage slumped to his knees. Then the man turned his assault rifle toward him.

A moment later one of the men from the van shot the man in the head. The shower of shots almost blew the man’s head from his shoulders.

Pain suddenly broke through the veil of adrenaline. Hunter rolled over onto his back and looked down. On his left shin he could see blood and broken flesh clearly visible against the white of his trousers. He shut his eyes and almost threw up.

“Man down!” someone was still yelling in his earpiece. “Man down!”

The men with the assault rifles started firing again and seemed to be concentrating their fire on the men crouched behind the back of the van. Their bullets riddled the soft metal, turning it into a sieve. Hunter could hear the men behind the van howling in agony. He realized he had to get out of there, right away.

“This is Leader,” he hissed into the microphone. “Abort mission. I repeat, abort mission!”

A bullet punctured the tire next to him, and another drilled through the metal just an inch and a half away. He’d been spotted. Hunter tucked his arms in toward his body, kicked off against the underside of the vehicle with his intact leg, and rolled away from the house.

The ground fell away beneath him as he tumbled out of control down the slope and in among the trees. He fell head over heels a couple of times, actually leaving the ground before hitting a tree trunk. The collision knocked the air out of him. He coughed and slowly tried to sit up. His nose and mouth were full of snow, and one side of his head stung like hell. He crawled up to a sitting position and took shelter behind a tree, then put a hand up to feel his ear. His fingers didn’t find what they were looking for. With an icy wrench in his gut, he realized that most of his outer ear was missing.

The shoot-out up at the house was still going on. Protracted bursts from the assault rifles, growing more and more intense. Then a bang, so powerful that he felt it in his chest. It took him a few seconds to work out what it was. A hand grenade.

Hunter fumbled for his radio but discovered that his pocket had been torn from his vest. A fresh sound made him look up.

A thickset man with a ponytail was rushing down the slope, just thirty to fifty feet away. He was taking long, stumbling strides, lost his balance, and tumbled over, before landing feetfirst in a snowdrift. But instead of rolling away the man sank into the snow almost up to his waist and just sat there. Hunter recognized him as another of the men from the meeting at the gym, Micke Lund, one of the bikers.

Lund looked around and started when he saw Hunter pressed against a tree. Their eyes met.

There were shouts from up at the house. In Serbian. “The fat bastard’s down there! Kill him!”

The bullets from the assault rifles cut right through Lund’s bulletproof vest, going through his body and throwing up little bursts of snow behind him. The man’s eyes opened wide for a few seconds, and he stared at Hunter as if he were trying to say something. Then he slowly slumped forward.

Hunter leaned his head back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. His stomach clenched and for a few seconds he felt as if he were falling.

Sarac stared at Molnar. Then at the gun pointing at his head. His ears were still ringing and he was blinking hard to shake off the aftereffects of the stun grenade.

He heard steps from the staircase and spun around, and just had time to see a camouflaged figure before Molnar fired. The man cried out and tumbled backward down the stairs.

Sarac got to his feet and began to walk slowly down the corridor. Molnar was still aiming right at him. Sarac raised his own gun and pointed it at Molnar. He stopped so close that their barrels were almost touching.

“You fucking idiot!” Molnar’s face was white. “What the hell have you done?”

“Markovic, Lehtonen, and Sabatini,” Sarac interrupted. “You killed all three of them. At first you tried to make it look like there were three different killers. Then you tried to blame everything on Janus.”

“You hardly gave me any choice,” Molnar snarled. “Someone had to clean up the mess you left behind. Hansen got what he deserved, you couldn’t let him blackmail you and took appropriate action. I was only doing the same as you, protecting the secret.”

“Janus,” Sarac said. “Everything begins and ends with him. But the hooks of that symbol face inward, not out.”

Molnar nodded. “So you’ve finally realized. I was actually starting to wonder.”

He raised his radio without moving his gun from Sarac’s head.

“Josef, can you hear me? We have to get out of here.”

The radio crackled.

“Josef, are you there?” Molnar said.

More static, then a deep voice with a faint accent.

“Your cop friend can’t talk right now. He’s not feeling too good.”

Molnar grimaced and waited a couple of seconds before replying.

“And who are you?”

“Sasha,” the man said. “I have no issue with you, cop. All I want is Janus.”

Molnar glanced quickly at Sarac.

“Who?” he said.

“Very funny,” the man replied.

There was more noise downstairs now, footsteps approaching through the hall.

Molnar took a deep breath, then lowered his gun. Sarac did the same.

“There are three or four of them,” Molnar said. “All armed with assault rifles. As far as I could tell, sounds like AK47s.”

Sarac nodded and took the chance to change his cartridge.

“This isn’t over, David,” Molnar said. “Do you get that? As soon as we get out of here . . .”

“I get it, Peter.” Sarac released the safety catch. Then nodded to Molnar.

More noises from below, whispers, then movement.

“Can we get out that way?” Molnar nodded toward the veranda behind them.

“Yes,” Sarac said. “But it’s at least a fifteen-foot drop.”

Molnar turned and opened the door to the veranda. He stepped cautiously out among the building material. Sarac followed him.

Behind him he heard quick footsteps, then the sound of something rolling across the floor of the corridor. Sarac spun around and saw a green metal cylinder with a yellow stripe
down the side following them out onto the veranda. It stopped right next to the gas cylinders.

His legs started to move by themselves. Sarac opened his mouth and shouted. Roared!

•  •  •

Atif opened the door of the van. The noises from the house had gone quiet.

“Sorry I have to leave you like this,” he said.

Natalie pulled a face. The parcel ties he had used to tie her to one of the cargo hooks in the floor were cutting into her wrists. But as long as she lay still it was okay.

Atif closed and locked the door behind him. He assumed the neighbors must have called the police already, but it would be more than an hour before anyone got there. But at least she wouldn’t freeze to death.

As soon as the van door closed Natalie crept backward over her hands so they were in front of her, then shifted position so she could reach the front pocket of her jeans with her fingers.

Atif walked up the narrow track. The weather seemed to have changed completely, switching from tempestuous storm to silent, beautiful snow.

The turning circle in front of the house looked like a war zone. He had heard the sound of the hand grenade a short while ago, and the sight that confronted him was pretty much as expected. Two bullet-riddled wrecked vehicles in front of the porch. The snow was covered with brass-colored empty bullet cases and he could almost taste the gunpowder and TNT in the air.

Atif walked around the rear vehicle, a van that had been pretty much turned into a colander. He saw the dark-rimmed crater where the hand grenade had gone off. There were several bodies on the ground and he heard someone whimpering in Russian but didn’t stop to find out who it was. The front door to the house was open, jagged splinters of wood sticking
out from the frame. He could hear noises inside, someone screaming.

•  •  •

“Hand grenade!” Sarac roared as he rushed for the far end of the veranda. Molnar seemed to have realized it already and was two steps ahead of him. He’d raised his gun and was emptying the magazine into the windows in front of them, knocking out several of the old panes of glass.

Sarac did the same, firing once, twice . . . then he raised his hands in the air and jumped. The pressure wave hit him while he was in the air, hurling him through the old windows and out across the snow-covered grass. He landed on his stomach, catching his left arm beneath him. He heard it snap. He gasped for air and tried to roll away. His ears were howling, his whole head aching.

A big piece of glass was sticking out of his lower left arm. He pulled it out and got to his knees. There was less bleeding than he expected. He checked the rest of his body for further injuries with his right hand. The bulletproof vest seemed to have saved him from the worst of it, but when he touched the back of his neck his hand felt wet with blood. Strangely enough, he couldn’t feel any pain.

On the ground in front of him, half-buried in the loose snow about a yard away, was a familiar object. His pistol. He picked it up and got to his feet. Then he started to stagger across the grass, away from the house and toward the old fruit trees.

“David!” Molnar’s voice cut through the roaring in his ears and made him turn around. “Where the hell are you going?”

Molnar’s gun was pointed straight at him.

“That way,” Sarac said, gesturing toward the edge of the forest. He heard how strange his voice sounded. Then he noticed the man with the assault rifle who had appeared in the doorway about ten feet behind Molnar. And saw him raise his weapon.

•  •  •

Atif carefully pushed at the front door. The fresh explosion had left his ears ringing, but the smell was even stronger than before. Gunpowder, smoke, TNT—and some other more subtle smells beneath them. Adrenaline, blood, fear, death.

The air inside the hall was full of dirt and sawdust and he had to squint in order to see anything. He stepped inside and discovered a body impaled on the banisters of the imposing staircase. Camouflage clothing, bulletproof vest, military boots. A flickering light from the upper floor was growing stronger. The sound of fire greedily attacking old wood.

He peered into the living room and beyond, through a glazed veranda. There were two figures on the snow-covered grass, both with their backs to him. He recognized one of them, David Sarac.

On this side of the two figures, in the middle of the doorway, stood a man with an assault rifle, taking aim at them.

•  •  •

The bang was abrupt, and nowhere near as loud as Sarac had been expecting. When the man in the doorway collapsed he didn’t understand what was going on at first. Then he caught sight of another figure silhouetted on the veranda. He recognized him almost at once. The man from Gamla stan.

•  •  •

Atif shot the man with the assault rifle right in the back of the head, didn’t even have time to think about it. The body fell without a sound. He stood there for a moment, looking down at the lifeless body as blood pumped out of the hole in his head. He had done it again, killed someone without a second thought. Admittedly to save someone else, but still.

The unknown man out on the grass had turned toward him and fired a shot in his direction. The distance was too great, but
Atif ducked instinctively. He saw David Sarac run toward the edge of the forest. The other man went on shooting toward the house. Atif raised his gun and took aim.

A tiny flicker in one of the panes of glass made him change his mind and throw himself to one side. The hail of bullets from the assault rifle missed him by a hairsbreadth and shattered almost all the remaining windows.

Atif ducked behind the sofa, fired two shots blind, and threw himself into the next room, a small library with beautiful built-in bookcases, just like the ones he had at home. He got to his knees and took aim at the doorway. And waited . . .